The Lost Larson Poems
For Rudy Johnson and William H. Duryea

flummery and diet cowabunga

Larson read The Roundabout Papers by
Thackeray, and he stayed
sang-froid and the fucking like
he has patented sediment from
an alcoholic drink, even though
the Canadian customs gave him dog eye
(they don’t know he’s partial to dog mouth)
(he has a brilliant technique with thick spit,
the way he allows it to pool in his mouth
and then feeds it to a dog from above, he
calls it a “loogy feast”)

Larson shelves Thackeray,
admires his posters,
and his S&W Model 19 blue-steeled thirty-eight

his neighbor, Atkins, is blaring
Richard Simmons
it smells like muffins in there
it does, i so promise
so Larson gets a snack
it’s all biologically sound
goes down to die in GI

Laters Larson finds an ass man
not like that – it’s just a tom cat
with whom he breaks bread on Tuesdays
tomato/tomato says the friend

Larson’s insides are rotting
though today his kitchen is spic and span
he hits his home base
guzzles dextromethorphan
and trolls individuals through
ancient lines of ethernet,
while softly whispering
cowabunga to his own self

a poem for august thirdly

Fuck you and your waffle house muse,
who do you think i am, an illustration by j.c. squares?
these are the first commentaries of Larson
who is now institutionalized
his words upon entry, such as he said

his ass is fully healed from buckshot
his friend, facefuck, put the rounds in him
then dialed nine eleven and lol’d
it was a drugs-in-the-woods scene
the ambulancing took forevers – Larson

it is not 2019, and I am not searching
twitter for euphemisms and overt nightmare women
(Larson again, searching the classifieds)

he hits red hook of an evening
dials wood-pussy, black maria, and scores uppers
Larson is in clover, though nearly dead inside
his floating kidney is making a racket
(it’s really just a mesh implant gone south on him)
and his tinnitus is something crazy

maybe stop shooting off your .38 from your window – Leaky Lisa
now that it is september 12th – LL again

Larson hits corn whiskey and visits
bruce the spider, whose air mattress smells like almonds
and this is where things begin and end

throwback Larson

Larson at the flamingo in vegas
2006
like a stool pigeon
only like in amber, crystalized

Larson:
he rode a trike before his bike
therefore he’s straight as an arrow

nah, he’s some alternatively kind of square!
(this from a Sarah Lawrence graduate)

Larson begins to fidget
he is bently on his upright stool
ex parte, he is not well
something on his insides
he calls for a chambermaid
is denied in uproarious casino laughter

wood-pussy knows the drill
he leaves his friend and finds
a pharmacy
from which of he returns, brown-bagged

on his returnings, wood-pussy finds
Larson fanning his flames with flaubert’s parrot
it is a paperbacking scene of misfortunate
Larson is uncomfortable

wood-pussy unsacks, unseals
orders two rum-diets, the tender returns
quietly, wood-pussy unscrews the cap
pours the contents into Larson’s drink

the bartender turns volte-face
sparks a query, says what the fuck is that
(he is on the prowl for date-rapes)
wood-pussy calls him aside
whispers to him:
it’s ex lax,
my pal has two gerbils inside hims
something awful
they’s dead but ain’t combustible
that is, they aint’ movin proper
they ain’t drainin’

the bartender scans the bottle
wide-eyes wood-pussy, and
thus rendered were the bartenders
suspicions nil

…

2:19 a.m. from room 219:
Larson: Cowabunga!

Larson in the chain

Larson drank “well water”
and now he’s nasty like
Yorker, Aug. 12 and 19, 1939
“what the fuck are you talking about Larson”
it’s called liberation anxiety
“what is?”
they fear, says Larson,
their natural protectors
Larson is hallucinating in a pet shop
whereat he is mostly attempting
to buy an ant colony
Joseph Jackson, other than a good one
he is not making sense
so he goes out for onion rings
only it’s a don pablos
and they haven’t any of his
mostly requested vittles
Larson phones facefuck
and drools on a waitress
to flick, 1946, ya dig? it’s devil’s tar
Larson attempts fellatio on a tied-up canine
the waitress calls the cops
Larson is ejected into a squad
whereupon the 72-hour hold
process is started against him
all over and from above
by nightfall, he is well restrained
and back on his institutional
recon missions, totally insane

Larson receives a mysterious text

“poor richard
with his choicest morsels of wisdom lol
he wasn’t loafing in a featherbed
but he did advertise passionately on twitter
for every tom, dick and francesca

souper*
spam cluster*
INVESTIGATE

ordering journals
skull-dragging, even a
pencil behind his ear
do you know tim?
nah, don’t fuck with him
(liz farts at the rhyme,
orders a miniature piano on _____________ )

i am so sick and fucking tired of all of
Jonathan’s reverse racism!

did you find my moleskin?
take a pic of it lol
in it you’ll find two-penny men
and a drink called warm flannel
it’s very much twenty-tenly

that’s it for now, pet
i’m going to join the rest
of the box-lobby loungers
the ones who eat jackutty-taters
in the house of commons
and get fucked up on vinegar wine

feel free to text back
i love you”

Larson’s slasher party

there is a knock
in the code of sneaky pete
he wants in, pleasing, snazzy colors
pete is a square-head from iowa
not quick on the uptake
nor glowing in speech
but he likes coffee and jockstraps
Larson and pete perch with
schnapps appetizers
watch silent night, deadly night (1984)
pete smokes crack
some gaslit 90s queen
back when Mother Superior used
to starve his ass
stir-wise pete is smoke-blind, rambling
Larson knee-caps him
watch this
a girl on antlers, exsanguinating
Larson mostly avoids crack smoke
lights up a capri slim menthol
his brain has robbed his stomach
pete googles Lilyan Chauvin
she was a dame in her time
they pass out with lit cigs

friday the, the, the 13th
(at the funkhole)

friday is not thirteenly
not least where Larson
feathers his nest
mostly a domiciliary
and blood bank
so latelyling he has
taken to rib-ticklers
asked about penis syndrome
he merely replies
a cowboy was not always
a cowboy
the bartender spurts sprite
Larson finds a Richard Roe
half-corned with braces
says i see you somewhereing
don’t pitch a bitch
the Roe has padding over
his thighs and hips
and knifes Larson’s cheek
something spectacular like
Larson pulls his brass knuckles
but the Roe shows a badge
it is a warrant after all
and the judge even authorized
the slash to Larson’s face
cowabunga nothing says Larson
as he is mostly hauled off
and albeitly manacled

Larson’s mesh implant

Larson you gots skunk in your bunk,
who was here, Bold Levi?

nah he’s in county lol

then who?

terry

the epileptic?

bingo

damn, how do you feel?
i heard hungry kenneth beat your ass again

Larson is alone
he has pain in his loins lol that has having been theres
for god knows how long, &c.
it’s like down in his pelvicly
an advert for lawyerings comes upon him on the boobily tube
it be about his mesh implant, his very one!
Larson dials the number

good afternoon, goyim goyim and goyim

Larson hangs up

he spudges around in his kitchenings
he is self-righteous and easily victimized, as is known
by now to the astute reader to a fucking fare-the-well

his mesh implant hurts
but he’d rather catch a skin flick with facefuck
than talk to a fucking lawyering about it
maybe he will though
there’s time yet
and his pelvis is on fire

outside ______________, OH

Larson is sneezing
wheezing
hands and kneesing
(he’s on all fours, okay?)
           -easy peasy

ping
and he unscrews a skull chromie
off someone else’s semi
the trucker who calls him “pet”
is in the truckstop getting
nachos and a powerade
and a bag of sunflower seeds

Larson spots a handsomely over-the-roader
so he makes like a viper and
walks over and introducingly
makes himself known and unknown
all in one
he is now a different trucker’s pet

not longingly afterly, they are on the road
outside dayton, puffing virginian weed
and tossing back jager bombs
Larson shoots at a passing sign
from his .38 special
his new man don’t mind
they laughs and laughs

at nightfall, tempers turn
Larson turns sentimental as all get out
the trucker threatens
to make a blood halo of Larson
it is only by dint of his pocket pistol
that Larson gets out alive

he heads into the woods, shits
and returns to the fog line with
his thumb out
all he wants is to lay down softly
with a stranger who will cover
him in Sharpie

Larson gets shaken up after he makes embers of a structure

Larson is with his friend,
the one-time politician
they are both in treatmenting
they are flicking a paper football
back and forth in the cafeterially
having just ingested powder,
they are getting a royal kick out of it

the powder was secured from an orderly
who trafficked in sex, drugs, and the march of dimes
the cost of the drugs was six handjobs
he and the politician had to rock-paper-scissor
Larson threw paper only, hoping to lose
he was after all, smitten by medical providers,
security guards, and bishops,
anyone with a badge or in shining white

Larson comes down in the evening
he’s listlessly, teeth-a-grinding
his eyes are like the lining of cattle stomach,
it makes sense to him, thinkingly
he’s on tenterhooks, so
he heads to the woodshop used
by patients to make artsy and the like
by the by, and on the way and the like,
he procures a mixed drink of Nyquil and Red Bull
by running a sandy on Bruce the Spider
slams it, and BOOM*
he is seeing fantastically

In the woodshop (that is, therein) Larson
sets to carving,
and fashions a wooden puppet nigh
two feet high and handsome as all
get out, and whom he names Pinoke
Larson’s brain is on fire
he inspects the deep recesses of his eyes
Pinoke raises his head, his arms

Jiminy Crocket! screams Larson,
who doubles over and fists his nose

he lunges at the puppet and douses
it in lighter fluid, pulls a Bic, flicks
it is here that the puppet goes up in flamings,
along with a part of the woodshop wall, or
what have you

Larson beats it for his dorm, locks the door
and hides like a pussycat from
what is undoubtedly a conflagration
there are posters up the next day
no one can make out the form on the footagings
though beneath the table
Larson has restless leg syndrome
he just wants to leave treatment
and roll in his fucking Caddy
it’s cherry-red doncha-know

sordid Larsoning

betimes he ain’t no culture vulture
Larson, that is
he is bleeding out on lace curtains
after his last visitation to the fleshpot
where he did engage his self
to gum-sucking and hanging
he is not all bad
he did support civil unions
during all the Bush dynasty

he has one foot in the graveyard
and the other in a 711
where he feigns madness
so as to get free beef jerky
outside he twists and untwists

ratherish, Larson heads to pete’s
who is swindling ubers with facefuck
it’s an old Buick Riviera routine
facefuck’s fingers are sticky with
sour apple jolly ranchers
and remnants of canine groping
he gets a kick out of the lipstick
he has killed 14 dogs in his lifetimes
only males though
the females he makes-out-with

facefuck and pete and Larson
go down to Hudson Yards
and harass tourists
Larson slips his clutch with
a stranger
they beat it to a motel
Larson is knocked out from behind
with a rope around his neck
and wakes up in hospital

he cognizes the nurse
the one from whom he defenestrated his own self
she is snarky and ill-tempered
she draws blood and chokes out Larson
with this Larson is thrilled
so she hammers his testicles
and says that does it
Larson sees stars and begs for
morphine, which is accidentally denied

Larson the writer

Larson believes in humanity (for the nonce)

Hey Larson, c’mer. You ever been to a professional baseball game?

Larson: You mean the fucking MLB?

LOL yeah, yeah, yeah.

So they heads to the Yankees mostly against the Detroit Tigerings
Larson cuts in line, gets
metal detectered anyway
(They don’tly discoverly his heroine, nor his court file number)

They have seats in sectioning 109, and a male human
is seatings in Larson’s paid-for spot
Larson invites him to a Budweiser and powder
the male relents and comes all over Larson’s chin
Larson is sticky and happy

laters Larson finds a young bloke
down and out and beating an upturned bucket
with drumsticks – a modern busker, &c.
Larson proffers a tip, thrice Lincolns
the bucket drummer sucks Larson’s cock
under a tree in daylight, downtown
they are both arrested

but Larson don’t care
He now believes in humanity
even though he detests the notion
that people are basically good

auto thievering insofar as flyover

interstate by interstate
Larson is drivers-seating, naked
‘cept his _____________is plugged, hidden vibrations
the battery is near dead
he is reading a novel
and going about 80, soft weaving
the novel is by evan s. connell and
takes place in the bay lol

Larson is sobbing over _____________
when he almost killed his self
he rear-ends a semi slightly
and exits the interstate

nearbying the truck stop,
Larson cuts a deal with a lot lizard
the kind that shoots from hand-dryers
and makes 20s in fleabags
they split alky, dish out hummers jointly
Larson departs, his wagon is gone
he is thumbing out for any chappie
he has emptied his pockets
and his interior sack
he is sad as all hell

a second mysterious text

“hey Larson its [lol]electro shock therapy worked on ya bruva
[to be read in the king’s englishly lol]bet yer watching all your 90s teen television
and wearing your hypercolor tee
or maybe you’re working on your best of the net lol
just wanted to let ya know that me and maria
is fondling finely, doncha worry
the facts is that i gave her denim overalls while
the only gift you ever made her was the clap
fuck you Larson
see you on the web”

Larson thinks of going down to davy jones locker, and does

in a hellish truckstop
Larson is seeking a
redress of grievances
against some jane that was
kind of simple and denied
him a lottery payment
as the scratch off was
indiscernably and the like

Larson has two dead dogs
in his Caddy
they were “rescued”
accordingly to his self

in his lifetimes Larson has
sent no fewer than 23
dogs to the marble orchard
all of them males
he is kindly to the females
of which he french kisses, which
he learnt from a friend
he is not completely formed
and yet seeks carnal knowledgings

Larson is high on pig-irons
storms out of the store
tears at his hair
and peels out with a
.21 BAC, and some
little high from
huffing Sharpies

so, pigeon-eyed, he
heads for niagra falls
it will be just him, and the two
dead dogs
in his supremely wooden barrel

onlookers gave recountings
said they seen the barrel
and from within it, at the edge
a bloodcurdling cowabunga!

saint la croix cemetery, novemberly 8, 2022

spencer is back-leaning against
the gravest headstone of Larson
Larson did it, finally and kind of accidentally
knowing the chips were down
it was an openly casket
for which Larson got his self
a Continental haircut, special
they buried him with his brass knuckles
wood-pussy bawled fits, ingested powder

christ it’s the zero hour
gripes spencer, who is
deep-lunging a marijuana cigarette
he is whistling Larson’s favorite tune
which ain’t Night in Tunisia
he is hungry
his thong itches
spencer kicks at the grass…

so spence[r] raids Larson’s bank account
he is the executor after all
he is his self thinking of hemlock
or a hempen cravat
we can’t all die in clover, pet

having located the wampum
he tears at his thong
calls Wrinkle-Rod
buys uppers and investigates
the cremation society
then he calls warm-wise Lonny
who dances naked and _______________.

a month later spencer gets a
call from Wrinkle-Rod
who had himself heard from Larson
twasn’t Larson in that barrel!

i see, so who done it?

             it be like some kind of doppelganger
             and life insurance schemely

that fucking Larson, i knew it

lol

rusting belting, &c.

Larson is back in Indiana
says “back” though he
ain’t never beenly
so what’s the story morning glory
i’ll tell ya

he has a copy of wichita stories under his belt
don’t know if it’s a good ticket
‘cause he don’t know the sales
but it is a good book, so Larson
chips the ivories over it with a bartender
in a palace called Gay Deceivers

there’s this story about budd dwyer is in it like
you know budd and the like

you know budd, the whole faces of death bit
yeah yeah yeah
so i remembers that shit from kid times on vhs lol
his handing out letters, says “give this to so-and-so” like
he is not making no fucking spiel
then the way he snatches up that manila envelope
like it was a lifeline – twas
god damn, when he takes out that beautiful Smith,
calms the room, and blasts himself
sad as all hell, i ain’t knowingly why
i am going on like thisly. my regrets and the like

Larson turns up in Fargo

Larson looks in and at his self
his face is half-covered in Sharpie
he deduces he was sleeping on his sideling
the graffiti on his cheeks and forehead
consist of monstrous penises and lols

Larson regrets meeting up Hungry Kenneth
who soft sold him on a backrub that
led straight to hell
didn’t help that Ken looked like a doll and said
his family owned half the Tide company

Larson is on his own

with coffee, he reads from
severance’s journal, then scribbles some notes:

             [indent]

             False pride (include more, pg. 131)

             need one to throw my hooks into, like Sad Rolf, who got his self saved

             to hell with me, the dippydro
             the run around
             guilty, guilty (false witnessing)

             here to there, anywhere

             from place to place…

             AA will never do it. Maybe becoming a Jew?